


Inferno

by athena_crikey



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Endeavour (TV)
Genre: AU, Arson, Bigotry, Discrimination, Gen, Morse has a secret, Not for very long though, casefic, mild h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 00:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14484870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Working an arson case, Morse's hidden abilities are suddenly foregrounded.





	Inferno

**Author's Note:**

> If you're looking for other Avatar fic in the Endeavour 'verse, check out [Tashilover's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover) fic [Jack of all trades](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202871)

The smoke rose in a long plume, charcoal grey against the bright blue sky. The wailing of the fire engines had already ceased: men were on the ground working quietly and intently, syphoning off the water from the fire plug and pouring it directly into the thick, greasy flames. 

The fire rose hungrily, red tongues licking at the lorry’s skeleton. The engine was an inferno; the back had almost finished burning off under the intense heat generated by the apparently spontaneous combustion of its load. Only the cab was relatively untouched, although the roof and sides were scorched black. 

Morse watched the blaze, fingers twitching at the itchy feel of uncontrolled flames. He locked his hands behind his back and forced himself to stand still for once, a bastion of calm in the face of the disaster.

“It was carrying paraffin, sir,” said Jakes. A small contingent of officers were watching the fire from the sidelines: Thursday and Jakes stood with Morse a respectable distance from the flames, out of the way of the fire department. “In barrels. Went up like Guy Fawkes. Luckily the driver was in the pub – luckier still no one was too close by.”

“Witnesses?” asked Thursday, frowning.

“Plenty who saw the explosion, none who saw what happened right before it. But there was nothing in the back that would have acted as a point of ignition.”

“Just like all the others,” said Thursday. He glanced at Morse, who knew then he had been silent for too long; Thursday had come by now to expect his opinions to be stated up front. He hastily martialed his thoughts, dragging his attention away from his yammering instincts. 

“A fire this big, it would be hard to guarantee that no one would be hurt, even if the he took the precaution of making sure the driver was out of the cab. Whoever’s behind this isn’t aiming for casualties, but they aren’t shying away from them either.”

Thursday looked to Jakes. “How long ‘til the fire’s out?”

Morse bit his tongue to keep from answering. Jakes’ brow furrowed, eyes tracking the arcs of water. “At that rate of flow, another hour yet.”

“Do you want to lend a hand?”

The corners of Jakes’ mouth twitched. “The local boys get tetchy about outside help,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets in a smooth gesture. “And nothing else is in danger of burning down,” he added, eyeing the empty street. The nearest building was several yards away from the fire, and already preventatively soaked by early responders. 

“Then Morse can stay behind and take statements,” said Thursday, turning to go. Jakes turned with him, leaving Morse behind watching the blaze. After a moment he sighed and slipped into the crowd, pulling out his notepad and pencil as he went. He drifted through the street, and none of the cinders falling from the fire came to land on him.

  
***

The glass partition in the CID central office had already been taken over by the arson investigation. A map of the city had been taped up, with fires marked in red ink. Photos and names of potential suspects had been added, and lines from witness statements and the local paper had been appended. One bold headline in particular stood out: _FIREBUG RAMPAGE._

To date this month five fires had sprung up in and about Oxford, each lighting up a highly flammable target. So far damage had been relatively contained, but the trend was escalating: from wood-based rubbish heaps in back alleys to sheds holding flammable materials to this afternoon’s blaze, the lorry full of paraffin. 

Morse stood silently before the board, hand resting thoughtfully on his chin, eyeing the clippings and pencilled notes. 

“It’s the heat,” said Jakes from behind his shoulder; Morse looked around to meet his eyes. “Brings out the looneys.”

“Arsonists are often very high-functioning,” he said with a frown.

“Been swotting up, have you? And what about fire benders?” Jakes produced a cigarette and lit it with a match, dousing the flame with a droplet of water pulled from midair by a neat twist of his fingers. The death of the flame registered as a soft press against Morse’s heart, like a kitten kneading his skin. 

Morse scowled, swiveling around to face Jakes. “What about them?”

“Use your eyes, Morse. It’s plain enough what – who’s – been causing all this. No incendiary devices, no clear point of ignition – it’s only a matter of time until he trips up and leaves a witness behind.”

“There’s no proof. You’re just speculating.”

Jakes shrugged. “If the shoe fits…” he turned away, treading back to his desk. “You can keep on with your crank theories, but sooner or later we’ll have proof, and it’ll be another of their lot off the street.”

Morse opened his mouth to reply, and instead paused. Thursday was standing in the doorway to his office, watching the two of them. At Morse’s glance he inclined his head, drawing the younger man over. He let Morse slip past him into his office, then shut the door.

“You and Sergeant Jakes having a creative difference?” he asked mildly, rounding his desk to his chair and taking a seat. 

“He’s convinced a fire bender is responsible. There’s no evidence to say so.”

“None to say there isn’t, either,” replied Thursday, evenly. “Popular opinion –”

“Popular opinion rounded up fire benders during the war and threw them in camps, just in case their war-like nature got the better of them,” spat Morse, crossing his arms. “It’s all just prejudice, sir.”

“I agree they face more than their fair share, Morse, but in this instance the case is fairly strong. There’s no other credible mechanism for starting these fires than spontaneous ignition – probably a fireball lobbed in from a decent distance.”

“There’s no sense to it,” protested Morse.

Thursday sighed, resting his hands on top of his blotter heavily. “Sometimes there’s no sense to be found in violence. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but one every copper has to.” 

Morse grappled with the idea, shifting through flat-faced denial to scorn to anger. Thursday didn’t seem surprised by his reaction; he didn’t press the issue. 

“Call in Sergeant Jakes,” said Thursday at last. “Let’s have your update from the witness statements.”

  
***

Police-work was about patterns, Morse knew, sitting at his desk staring at the map of the recent arsons. The whole of life was, of course; benders knew that instinctively, following the forms they learned as children to control the world around them. But it was just as true of non-benders: the routines and habits people fell into defined them, defined their actions. Even criminals. Even arsonists.

It was just a matter of identifying the pattern. Then everything would fall into place.

  
***

In the first-floor hallway, passed by nearly all station employees as well as members of the public, was a cork-board with union notices, building notices, and bulletins from the DCS and the Chief Constable. Among them were recruitment posters for the Force: advertisements for WPCs, PCs, and benders.

As he passed on his way to the canteen to fetch a cup of tea, Morse paused in front of the board. Last week a new advert had been posted in the bottom corner: _The Oxford City Police Wants You: We Are Seeking Fire Benders for Key Policing Positions at Generous Rates of Pay._ A stencilled picture of a man kicking a wave of flames had been appended to the bottom half of the poster.

In thick, black marker someone had added the words _In Gaol_ after _Wants You._

Morse shook his head and kept walking.

  
***

The other aspect of police work was, of course, an endless slog through witness statements, corroborating evidence, personal histories, and trawling the card catalogues full of persons of interest.

The first breakthrough occurred late that afternoon, after several long hours of reading and cross-checking notes, when Morse dug up the fact that the company owning the paraffin truck made regular deliveries to two of the locations also targeted by the arsonist. There was no immediate connection to the other two fires, but it was a start.

It was also the end to a long day. Thursday and Jakes were already gone, the office quiet and empty. Morse leant back and felt his spine popping, his muscles stiff from too many hours spent bent over his desk. Too many hours trying desperately to make some kind of sense of the fires. He resolved himself to finishing for the day, despite his dissatisfaction at leaving work undone, and closed the files. 

Morse walked home in the summer sunshine that evening, the sun’s rays a warm caress on the side of his face. It still wasn’t enough to make him forget his frustrations and anxieties. He arrived home in a terse mood, flinging the door open and staring in irritation at the tip that greeted him; somehow he could never seem to organize himself to keep a clean flat. Right now it jangled, rubbed against his raw nerves.

He slammed the door shut with a sharp blow from his hand; from beneath his fingers sparks jumped out, falling to singe the floorboards. Morse cursed and pushed his flattened palms downwards, extinguishing the cinders. 

He stood by the door for a moment, steaming at his lack of control as well as the day’s overall frustrations, then forced himself to take a deep breath. He went over to the windows and pulled the curtains shut, then returned to his dining table and its single candle. 

He lit the wick with a pinch of his fingers and took a seat. Closed his eyes and began to breathe, in and out, in and out. As he did so, slowly the flame began to rise and fall with the rhythm of his breaths, until he was the flame and the flame was him, the two of them in complete harmony. 

He wondered, opening his eyes to regard the flame, how long it would be possible to keep this secret. Especially on an arson case.

  
***

The second connection occurred the next morning. Morse came in early to get a good start on the work he hadn’t finished the day before, looking through the list of current and former lorry drivers compiled by dedicated PCs in lengthy interviews. It was a large company; there were heaps of files on the drivers to sift through. So it wasn’t until mid-morning that he turned up the fact that two of the drivers had worked for other companies of interest in Cowley and Oxford, one at one of the arson sites and the other at the other.

Of those two, one was a fire bender. Paul Glossop, whose picture showed a heavy-set porcine man with a five-o’clock shadow and a wide, frowning mouth.

It wasn’t his amber eyes that identified him – these days, after decades of interbreeding, eye colour was no longer a reliable predictor of bending affiliation – nor was it his short temper, as evidenced by a string of misdemeanor charges for breach of the peace and assault. It was the specific statement his boss had made in the interview, underlined by the recording constable. 

Morse pushed the files away from himself and straightened. Then, slowly, he closed the files and rose, walking into Thursday’s office.

The inspector was smoking a pipe and signing papers, pen scratching away; the fire in the pipe-bowl tickled Morse’s senses. He stood still until he was noticed; Thursday looked up and paused, raising his eyebrows. “Morse?”

“I’ve found something, sir.” He stepped forward, hand rising to skate his fingers over the curve of his ear. “In the files on the drivers. Two of them had previously been employed by a company based at an arson site.”

“So you think he’s going after places of employment.”

“Or those connected to them, sir. We could form a list of potential targets from the rest of their employment histories.”

“Is there anything to distinguish the two men? History of a grudge? Temper? Criminal record?”

“They both have records, sir – one for solicitation, the other for assault and breach of the peace. And…” he licked his lips, wetting them. “The second is a fire bender,” he said at last.

“I see,” replied Thursday, eyes sharp. “And when were you going to mention that?”

“It doesn’t make him any more likely to be guilty; fire benders are no more responsible for property damage or violent incidents than other benders.”

Thursday frowned, removing his pipe and placing it on its stand. “We’re dealing with an arson investigation, Morse, with no obvious ignition source. A fire bender is indicated. That’s not discrimination, it’s fact. And while the number of incidents attributed to fire benders may be on par with other benders, the amount and extent of the damage is greater. As in this case.” 

Morse remained stonily silent, bottom lip curled upwards in dissatisfaction. 

“What’s your stake in it, lad? Non-benders don’t usually take sides, and certainly not with fire benders,” said Thursday, watching him curiously. 

Morse crossed his arms, shifting his weight impatiently off-centre. “It doesn’t matter what I am; what matters is that people are treated fairly. Mistrusting an entire swath of people because of actions on the other side of the globe more than a hundred years ago is nothing but narrow-minded discrimination.”

“Alright then,” said Thursday after a moment of contemplation. “Hand the non-bender off to Sergeant Jakes. You can look into the bender yourself. See it’s done properly.” 

Morse felt his surprise splash itself across his face at the decision, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Thursday picked up his pipe again, taking a morose pull. “And mind you do it quickly; we’re due another fire in the next day or two.”

  
***

Compiling a detailed employment history without the benefit of interviewing the subject – lest he get the wind up – was a tricky prospect. Morse spent the day out of the station collecting information, interviewing past employers and colleagues. The sun was shining brightly down, filling his heart with strength, soaking up through his skin and lending him its might. It was enough to get him through the tedium of his duty.

It wasn’t until the next day, conducting an interviews with Paul Glossop’s work mates in a stuffy Cowley office, that he came to learn of the petrol station Glossop had worked for years back. It had only been for a few months, not long enough to make it into his employer’s record of work history. But long enough, according to his co-worker, to make an impression. He had been sacked for bawling out the child of a well to-do customer for playing with the pumps. A perfect target.

“Don’t ken the name, but t’were in Summerville. Jammed bang up against a posh school,” opined the co-worker in a thick brogue. Morse stood, thanking him for his time. 

He made it back to the station in record time, immediately going to his desk and unfolding a map and the phone directory. It only took a few minutes to find the petrol station bordering on a school: Queen Ann’s School for Girls.

Jakes and Thursday were in the inspector’s office when Morse burst in, the two of them going through a file with long faces while behind them the blinds clacked in a weak breeze. They looked up as Morse sped in, his suit rumpled and his expression urgent, a map in his hand. 

“I might have a further target, sir,” he said. Jakes shut the file they were looking at and both men straightened. “Glossop worked at a petrol station in Summerland a few years back; he was sacked.”

“Which?”

“It’s a Gem station, sir, beside a girls’ school.”

Thursday nodded. “Let’s go.”

  
***

The sun was blazing overhead as they pulled up to the kerb on the station’s far side; Morse could feel the sweat prickling on his back sticking his vest to his skin.

The petrol station lot was on the corner of the road; it adjoined the girls’ school on one side, a large fenced-in propane tank sitting on the border between them. The petrol station looked smart in a recent coat of white paint, its two pumps sitting on a concrete island in the centre of a gravel sea. 

On the other side of the fence was the back of the girls’ school: a wide grass playing field currently occupied by a group of teenaged girls in uniform playing hockey. A small wooden shed sat further along the fence on the school’s side, doubtless used for storing field equipment. 

Thursday opened his door, pausing to look across the field at the girls. “Morse, you clear them out – Jakes, with me.”

Morse circled around the outside of the fence and onto the grass, cutting over the white line painted on the grass and onto the hockey pitch; the girls slowly came to a halt and turned to look at him. On the sidelines a woman in loose track gear looked up and crossed onto the pitch, coming over to meet him. 

He was still only five yards from the fence when he felt it, the unmistakable sear of flames from behind him. He swivelled fast, reacting from instinct rather than intention, hands flying upwards and outward, left foot sweeping along the grass and bringing a line of flame with it. 

The propane tank exploded. The ball of fire rolled across the grass like a tsunami, headed straight for him – and the girls behind him. 

Morse was already twisting the flames as they barrelled towards him; he caught the wall of flames in his hands, even as the heat seared his skin, and pushed it back. Bent it away from him, away from them, and off in the direction of the shed. 

It all happened in less than a second; then the inferno was gone and all that was left was charred grass and his blistering hands. 

He looked up and saw Thursday and Jakes staring at him from across the petrol station’s lot. For a moment the world was still, silent. 

Then the scorching pain flooded in; he looked down to see the skin on his hands was red and blistered; the fabric of his jacket sleeves was melted. The world tilted and he found himself very suddenly on his knees, the grass cool under his legs, his hands trembling. 

All around was chaos now; people running and shouting, flames flickering in the grass and on the shed. From out of nowhere Thursday suddenly loomed up in front of him and put his hand on Morse’s shoulder, looking down at him with wide, worried eyes. 

“Sir – I –” _I should have told you_ , is what he wanted to say, but then Jakes was loping up, a ball of water already formed between his hands. With a smooth roll of his fingers he poured it over Morse’s hands, while Thursday struggled to roll up Morse’s sleeves and expose his forearms. They were red but not blistering, protected by the fabric of his jacket and sleeves. 

He was just beginning to come out of his shock when he heard the screaming. Jakes and Thursday both straightened; Morse looked over.

From behind the burning shed a blackened body was crawling out, flames still licking at the back of the plaid uniform. The PE teacher sprinted over, pulling off her cardigan to smother the flames; several girls ran over and produced water from flasks, helping to soak the burn victim. 

“Jakes,” barked Thursday; Jakes whipped his own water back into its flask and ran across the field towards them, leaving Thursday behind with Morse. 

Morse sat on the grass and stared, unable to tear his eyes away from the crowd. 

Someone had been behind the shed. They had been there when he bent the flames right at it. 

He had done this.

He looked up at Thursday, haloed by the bright afternoon sun; the rest of the surrounding world was blurred, insubstantial. As though it was just the two of them, alone – the two of them, and Morse’s crushing guilt. 

“We’ll talk about it later, Morse. For now, I’ll call for an ambulance. Can you walk? 

Morse locked his jaw against the pain; his head was spinning and he felt sick. He forced himself to his feet regardless, hands held out awkwardly in front of him. He swayed once, and Thursday caught his elbow. “Come on.”

They marched together to the Jag, Thursday close by his side. 

“I should have told you, sir,” he whispered. 

“Time enough to have it out later, lad,” replied Thursday. He sat Morse down in the passenger seat and went around to unhook the radio, calling in an urgent request for an ambulance.

“I have to see to things here, Morse,” said Thursday, after cutting off the call. “Wait here ‘til I get back.”

Morse nodded silently, staring down at his now-weeping hands. Thursday closed the door and left him on his own. In the silence of his thoughts, the world was awash with despair.

  
***

He practiced his breathing exercises while he waited, needing something to keep his mind off the pain and his misery. He watched police car after police car drive by, then an ambulance, then fire engines. Eventually, he closed his eyes. A rap on the window startled him; he looked up to see Jakes standing outside, silhouetted against the bright midday sun.

Morse turned as Jakes opened the door and looked down at his hands. The sergeant’s face was difficult to read, the line of his mouth thin and his eyes dark. “Didn’t think you could be burned.”

To Morse’s surprise, he knelt and opened his flask and drew out a long stream of water, wrapping it around Morse’s burnt skin. For an instant the pain flared hot and bright and Morse shrank away, but then the water’s touch grew soothing. Jakes was no healer, but the cold water helped regardless. 

“Tell me what’s happened,” he said, staring intently at Jakes. 

Jakes’ lip curled, but he answered after a minute: “No one at the petrol station saw anything. The old man’s furious; he’s ordered roadblocks, although we’ve no photos to circulate. Half the nick is out here. Mr Bright just showed up.”

Morse closed his eyes. He could still feel the sun on his skin; it ought to have been soothing, but right now it was nothing but a reminder of what he had done. 

“Who was burned?” he asked. 

There was a moment of silence; Morse opened his eyes to see Jakes staring back at him, face dark and angry. “It was a student. Apparently the older girls often sneak out to smoke behind the shed. She’s on her way to hospital.”

Morse flinched, his hands tensing under the stream of water. 

“I should never have come,” said Morse, his voice raw. 

Jakes said nothing, his face set in a scowl. 

“Constable Morse,” hailed a reedy voice from the distance; Morse and Jakes both looked over to see DCS Bright striding across the pavement towards them. “Thursday said you were injured – you should be on your way to hospital.” He came around Jakes’ shoulder and saw Morse’s burnt hands, his eyes widening. “You need a healer. Sergeant, you’d better take him.”

“Yes, sir.” Jakes pulled the water back into his flask and stood, rounding the Jag’s bonnet. 

“I understand you displayed considerable bravery this afternoon, Morse. You have my personal commendation.”

“It was nothing, sir,” replied Morse flatly. 

“Nevertheless,” said Bright, nodding sententiously. He shut the door to the Jag and stepped back as Jakes gunned the engine and pulled out into the road.

  
***

The Radcliffe Infirmary was a prepossessing sandstone building with tall windows and a large circular fountain out front. The grass was bright and verdant in the sunlight, the building itself shining a golden hue. Inside the Casualty department was a sense of controlled chaos; nurses hurried here and there on clipping heels, doctors circulated carrying clipboards and porters helped patients through the whole confusing mess.

Morse was seen almost immediately. The healer was a young woman; the water she pooled around his hands glowed a soft blue as it enveloped his blistered skin. 

Jakes stayed to hear the diagnosis, as he put it: “The old man’ll want to know; he’d bawl me out for leaving without details.”

When the healer had finished with him the open blisters had faded, leaving his skin shrimp-pink and raw-looking. “You need at least two more sessions,” she told him, pulling a small glass jar filled with white cream from a drawer in the cupboard beside her. “Rub this on every hour; you need to keep the skin moist and cool. Don’t shower or bathe for the next 24 hours, and avoid washing your hands with hot water, or handling chemicals. Do you have access to a community healer?”

“There’s one attached to the station,” answered Morse. 

“Good. See them tomorrow morning.” She nodded and ushered them out of the small treatment room. 

Morse followed Jakes out of the hospital heading towards the Jag. Jakes looked over at him, frowning. “Where d’you think you’re going?”

“Back to the station.”

Jakes snorted. “With your hands like a pair of peeled prawns? You’d better go home.”

“Those girls were nearly killed – one of them is in the hospital now. I’m not stepping down from this case.”

“Think that’s a good idea, do you? And when it comes out that you were the one that bent that fire at the shed?”

The words were like a blow to the face. Morse snapped around, eyes blazing, felt the fire flaring under his fingertips. “I’ll take whatever blame comes my way for my actions, but I won’t roll over and let the person behind this go.”

“So we should trust one fire bender to bring in another?” spat Jakes, hands by his side – inches from his flask. 

“So you should trust a copper to do his job,” replied Morse harshly. “Just the same as I’ve always done.”

Jakes threw up his hands. “Your funeral,” he told Morse, opening the Jag’s door and slamming it shut after him. After a moment, Morse stepped into the passenger side. Jakes hit the throttle before he had closed the door.

  
***

Back at the station, Thursday collared the pair of them before Jakes could get away to add his grist to the rumour mill, pulling them into Bright’s office. The DCS had returned and was sitting behind his desk smoking a thin cigarette. Sunlight slanted in through the two west-facing windows, painting long crimson patches on the red linoleum floor.

“Well Thursday, this has been a right hash and no mistake.”

“In some ways, sir. In others we may have found an unexpected opportunity.”

Bright sat up, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “Namely?”

Thursday looked pointedly to Morse, who stepped forward reluctantly. “I’m a bender, sir.”

“Morse?”

“A _fire bender_ ,” put in Jakes, scowling. 

“Saved the lives of a dozen girls and their mistress,” said Thursday evenly, shooting Jakes a warning glance. “When the propane tank went up like Guy Fawkes and sent a wave of fire right at them, he bent it away. They’d have been nothing but ashes, elsewise.”

Bright turned to Morse, expression thoughtful. “Is this true, constable?”

Morse could feel the tug of the burning tip of the cigarette waxing and waning with the DCS’ breaths; he curtailed the childish urge to set it ablaze. “Yes, sir,” he answered instead. 

“You’ve always represented yourself as a non-bender.”

“Yes, sir. I was never formally trained, and given the climate in the Force regarding fire benders, it seemed better to keep it a secret.” Morse shifted, running a finger under his collar to straighten it. Bright frowned. 

“There are always hotheads in any organization, Morse, but I assure you had you chosen to identify yourself you would have been treated with the utmost equality.” Bright ground out his cigarette, smoke rising in a thin wisp towards the ceiling. The once-white stucco above was yellowing from decades of nicotine. 

Morse said nothing, standing silently. 

“As it is, I’m not sure we find ourselves in the happiest of situations. You misrepresented yourself on official paperwork; that will come with a cost. And you’ve been involved in an incident in which a young girl was seriously injured.”

“And a dozen more saved,” pointed out Thursday swiftly, stepping forward. “Sir, this is an opportunity – both for us and for Morse. We’ve been looking for fire benders for years; now we’ve found one ready-made and already trained. And on a case involving a firebug, his help will be invaluable – has already _been_ invaluable. It was Morse who tracked down the petrol station; if he hadn’t, who knows what would’ve happened.”

Bright steepled his fingers, pressing the tips to his lips thoughtfully. “I see possibilities, certainly. Do you have any insights to share, constable?”

“Our primary suspect should be Paul Glossop, sir. He was formerly employed by both the lorry firm and the petrol station – that’s what led us there. I know Inspector Thursday put up a cordon around the area, but we need to try his home and any other places of employment.”

Bright looked to Thursday, who nodded. “I’ve got men watching his flat, as well as his other current place of employ – he works as night watchman in the Morris factory in Cowley. He’s still employed by them, so he may not hold a grudge there.”

“We should certainly keep an eye nonetheless. You and Sergeant Jakes had better investigate his home in case there are any clues there.” His eyes fell on Morse. “Take Morse as well – for any insights he may have,” allowed Bright.

“Yes, sir. Just one more thing.”

Bright raised his eyebrows, and Thursday carried on. “For the moment, I’d like to keep Morse’s fire bending between the four of us. I’ve no doubt it will get out sooner or later, but if it were to leak out now in the middle of the investigation it might hamper progress. Better to have a controlled announcement after the fact.”

Bright produced a new cigarette, tapping the unlit end against his desk. “Well, I suppose the Chief Constable will have to be informed – you would be the first fire bender in the Oxford City Police, after all. And perhaps a press release… yes, I can see that a formal release of information would be best. Very well. You’re to keep this to yourselves for the moment. I’ll arrange for the announcement.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Bright nodded, and the three CID men trickled out.

  
***

“Sergeant, a word,” said Thursday as they emerged into the CID office; Jakes followed Thursday into his office, the latter shutting the door quietly but firmly behind them. Morse took a seat at his desk. His seared forearms chafed beneath his shirtsleeves; his hands felt raw and exposed in the air current blowing towards his desk from Jakes’ fan.

The CID office was relatively empty, men still down investigating the petrol station fire, or out on other duties. It was a relief; there was no one to question him about his burnt hands. 

From the office behind his back came the low rumble of Thursday’s voice, occasionally interspaced by short replies from Jakes. The conversation didn’t last long; a moment later Jakes was coming out the door looking stiff and displeased. Thursday followed, bringing his hat. 

“We’ll pay a visit to Glossop’s rooms. Morse, do you have the address?”

“Yes, sir.”

  
***

Glossop roomed in a lodging house in Cowley near the Morris factory, an old Victorian house split into bedsits. Two of McNutt’s DCs were stationed outside the house, smoking and reading the paper in an unmarked car.

The house itself was a shambles, the musty carpet worn through in patches, the plaster walls cracked and the hallway full of cheap discarded furniture and other detritus. There was a smell of turpentine and shoe polish: thick, chemical smells. 

The landlady opened Glossop’s room for them, disappearing down the corridor as soon as it was open. 

The room was small and undecorated, the single bed shoved in a corner and a rickety table and chair standing in the centre of the room. There were bare patches on the walls where pictures had once hung, and a dusty mantelpiece over the fireplace. The curtains were closed, a diffuse light filtering in through the thin cotton. 

The one item that there was, in spades, was candles. They were on the table, the windowsill, the bedside table, the kitchen counter. All were partially melted, lines of wax dribbling down the side. They were cheap, white wax, the kind that could be bought for sixpence a dozen. 

“Why the candles?” asked Jakes, picking a drop of wax off the table and flicking it across the room. “Short on money for the meter?” 

Morse shook his head. He reached out and pinched one of the candles to light, the soft glow warming his heart. “All fire benders keep candles,” he said, watching the flame flicker. “Although not usually this many.”

“Just like watching things burn, do you?” 

“It’s about control, not chaos,” replied Morse stiffly. He pushed his hand down and the flame died silently, the feeling like an ice cube tracing its way down his throat. 

There were few papers to be found in the flat; a couple of newspapers lay crumpled in the bottom of the WPB, both contained articles about the recent arsons, but they were unmarked. There were no books, just an old radio and a couple of motoring magazines. Some bills were stacked on the mantle, along with an advertisement for a sweepstakes. 

“Precious little to go on,” said Thursday, poking through the nearly empty wardrobe. “And nothing for him to come back for.”

“He may come back yet, if he doesn’t know we’re onto him,” said Morse, looking out the window through the slit in the closed curtains. He could just see the two detectives parked outside in their run-down Rover, to all intents and purposes just a pair of loiterers. 

“We’ll keep Mattick and Price on the street for another day,” agreed the DI. “But it’ll be sheer luck if we bag him here.”

  
***

By the time they returned to the station, most of the rest of the CID had also made its way back. Morse slipped through the bustle silently, eyes on Jakes ahead of him. It was up to the sergeant to keep his secret, and so far he hadn’t instilled much confidence. Whether his animosity was due to societal prejudice or the rough edges often found between fire and water benders, Morse didn’t know. Regardless, it would be easy for Jakes to sink his reputation in the station, poor though it already was.

Morse spent the afternoon nosing around for further potential clues to Glossop’s whereabouts. With his flat a wash-out, and the factory where he worked as night watchman also under surveillance, there were few options. He made phone calls and followed up on interviews conducted by the station’s PCs, to no avail. 

Occasionally, when his skin began to sting, he pulled out the jar of cream and rubbed some on his hands. It was cool and soothing, especially in the hot-box that was the station in the summer. And although he waited all afternoon for the snide comments to begin, none were forthcoming. So far, Jakes had held his tongue. 

At five, Thursday stopped by his desk. “I’m going out for a pint. Fancy one?”

Morse recognized it for what it was, a careful opportunity for Thursday to suss out his DC’s suddenly-changed status. He rose and followed Thursday out.

  
***

They went to the Waterwheel, an old pub on the Isis with seating on picnic benches in the back. Thursday fetched the drinks while Morse found a seat some distance from the other pub goers, watching a pair of swans glide across the water, elegant and sleek.

“So,” said Thursday, returning with a pair of pints. He slid one across to Morse, who took it and lifted it for a first sip. The beer was cool and frothy, the taste full of hops. He drank deeply before setting it down. 

“I know I should have told you, sir,” began Morse slowly.

“You said that before. I can understand your reluctance…”

Morse’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the glass tightening, fingers slipping on the condensation. “I don’t know that you can. My mother was a fire bender, and she narrowly avoided being shipped off to a camp in ‘39 – she was a Quaker, and the authorities agreed to let her off in light of her dedication to pacifism. But for that, I would have grown up behind a fence, like an animal. I had just begun to bend before she died; she taught me the most basic lessons a fire bender needs to learn – breathing, control, but that was it. My father had already remarried by that time, and Gwen fell neatly in line with every prejudice in the book. She didn’t just refuse to allow me to bend, she taught me to be ashamed of it.” His hand was shaking; he braced his wrist on the edge of the table and took a slow breath. There was more to that story, a whole well of darkness whose depths he had no desire to plumb at this moment. Gritting his teeth, he moved past it and back into the light. 

“They used to have bending classes after school on the pitch. I would go along to watch, and practice the forms myself later on my own on the wold, where there was nothing to burn but grass. No formal training; that’s probably why this happened.” He held out his hands palm-up, showing the healing skin. “I’m no model fire bender, sir. Not the person to be held up by the Force as a shining example of a fire bending officer. Any other bender in the station could cream me in a fight, yourself and Sergeant Jakes included.”

“From what you say you’ve a solid grasp of the basics, Morse. Flourishes are easy to learn. You caught the fire today with less than a second’s notice, and handled it accordingly. That speaks to your skills more than you give yourself credit for.”

“And because of me, a young girl was horribly burned. Not the spotless record Mr Bright will want,” said Morse, sourly. On the river a young couple passed by in a punt, the long poles swinging overhead gracefully. Morse watched them with his eyes until they passed out of sight behind a willow tree. 

“You know that wasn’t your fault. No way you could have known she was behind that shed, and nowhere else you could’ve bent the flames. You acted rightly, lad.”

Morse shook his head in silent protest. He could feel the sun’s heat on his back, pouring down over him with warmth and reassurance. He wanted none of it, wanted to crawl into a dark cave and stay there, alone and miserable. 

“You think sulking will catch Glossop, do you?” asked Thursday, in a sharper tone. Morse looked up to find his DI watching him critically. “Someone has to, Morse, and you’re the best man for the job. If you want to wallow, fine, but do it after we catch Glossop.” 

Morse straightened, stung. 

“That’s right; get angry, not maudlin. It was Glossop that lit the fire – he’s the one responsible for what happened at the school. We catch him, we can look to the next step for you.”

Morse finished off his pint, putting it down heavily. “There aren’t any leads left to pursue.”

“You’ll think of something; you always do. Now, if you’re done…” Thursday rose. Morse followed suit, frowning in confusion. “If I’m to be overseeing a bender, and not a regular DC, I need a bit more to go on. Come with me.”

  
***

They drove through the town and out into the country, coming to a stop beside an empty dirt field. Thursday got out and Morse followed; they hopped the fence and landed in the soft earth.

There were official training yards for benders in the city, of course. But the police grounds would attract unwanted attention, and the community spaces would be busy this time of evening. Morse didn’t want an audience, and he sensed that Thursday understood the fact. 

Thursday leaned back against the mouldering fence, elbows on the top-most spar. “In your own time, then. Show me what you’ve got.”

Morse shed his jacket and tie on the post beside Thursday, then trooped out into the centre of the field. The sun was still high in the sky; he could feel his strength flowing from it, filling him with energy. He came to a stop some twenty yards from Thursday and stood still with his eyes closed and his outstretched hands palm-down, fingers tip to tip. 

It had been a long time since he last went through his forms, the _kata_ he had learned watching his schoolyard companions take their lessons. He really was an amateur; didn’t even know the names of the forms or their history, just the results of them. The way the fire streamed out of him, pure and powerful. 

He surged forward all at once, turning his shoulders and taking a strong step, right hand coming up palm-out to shoot a blast of fire across the field. He bent low, arms outstretched, and snapped around to draw a half-circle of flames in front of him, followed by a rising kick that sent a line of orange fire along the dirt. He moved through muscle-memory, his movements growing smoother and surer as he worked his way through the forms. Fire surged around him in whips and blasts and walls, flaring and falling back as he summoned and then spent it. 

When he was done he was sweating, vest sticking to his back, his neck prickly with the dampness. He reached out and lowered his hands until the last of the sparks faded away, feeling their deaths like a hundred tiny needles to his heart. He wiped his arm across his forehead, eyes stinging, as he made his way back across the field to Thursday, who was standing like a scarecrow against the fence. 

“Well?” he said, eyebrows raised inquisitively, as he picked up his jacket and tie. 

“You’ve nothing to worry about. A few formal courses and you’ll be up to snuff in no time. For someone with no formal training, you’re remarkably focused.”

“There’s no half measures with fire,” replied Morse, thinking back through time to the first lessons his mother had taught him. _Never summon a flame you can’t control._

“No,” agreed Thursday, turning to clamber over the fence. Morse slung his jacket over his shoulder, relishing the cool summer breeze, and followed. They got into the Jag, the red upholstery hot with the sun. 

“I can take you home now if you’d like, sir,” suggested Morse, turning over the engine. 

Thursday looked back thoughtfully. “You’ll be alright, will you?” 

“I’ve some cream for the burns,” replied Morse. 

“That’s not what I meant. I know this is a secret you intended to keep. Having it shared…”

Morse sighed. “There’s nothing I can do about it now. All I can do is hope Mr Bright knows what he’s doing. Unless of course Jakes spills the beans first, in which case there won’t be much room for hope.”

“I’ve spoken to Sergeant Jakes. He’ll keep schtum. You and I can work out the rest with Mr Bright.” 

“I don’t want to be some trophy, held up as an achievement to positive discrimination.”

“I know, lad. But out there there are bound to be more young men and women like you, who were raised to be ashamed of their blood. This is an opportunity to show you don’t have to be.”

Morse pressed his lips together, hands tight on the steering wheel. “Maybe,” he said. 

They left it at that.

  
***

Home alone in his dark flat, Morse lit his single candle and took a seat in front of it. Instead of his breathing exercises he reached out and watched the flame rise and fall with the rhythm of his hand, dancing between his fingers, ebbing and flowing like the tide.

Here, alone in the shallow circle of light cast by the candle, he could pretend that his secret still held. Could feel safe and invulnerable, no need to fear the slings and arrows of his colleagues. 

He sat there for what felt like hours, letting the stress and the anguish of the day slowly bleed from him. Letting the candle’s tiny flicker of hope rejuvenate him. 

Everyone had somewhere they felt safe. For fire benders, that was somewhere with strong walls and a flame, somewhere they could find solitude and focus. If Glossop didn’t return to his flat, he would have to find somewhere else. A factory would be too large and open to lend a sense of sanctuary, and there weren’t many unoccupied spaces in the city where a candle’s light wouldn’t be noticed. 

A church, realized Morse, suddenly. There were dozens in Oxford, but an RC church was more likely to have lit candles all night. That still left nearly a dozen, but if he narrowed it down to historic churches more likely to be open for visitors… 

Morse rose and went over the phone, dialing Thursday’s number. It was picked up on the other end by Sam, who handed it off to the DI. “Sir? I have an idea.”

“Oh yes?”

“Fire benders go to ground in strongholds, somewhere not easily broken into. Somewhere a candle would go unnoticed.”

“Such as?”

“A church, sir. It would be easy to sneak in and hide until the church was closed, and there would be plenty of candles – we know Glossop likes that. St Aloysius Gonzaga in the Woodstock Road would fit.”

There was a moment of silence from the other end of the line, Thursday doubtless considering his words. Then: “Alright; we’ll try it. Give Jakes a call and have him meet you at the nick; you can pick up a car and come out to get me.”

“Yes, sir.”

  
***

St Aloysius’ was a narrow stone church set back from the main road by some twenty yards, and sandwiched in between larger buildings on either side. There was a small bell tower at its front and a large circular stained glass window that glowed vividly in the last rays of the setting sun. They walked under the stone gate leading to the courtyard in front of the church, their footsteps echoing on the flagstones, and paused at the front door. Jakes pulled a long twist of water from his flask and held it ready around his hands; Morse tensed.

Thursday pressed the wide double door and found it locked. He nodded to Jakes, who slipped a stream of water through the narrow seam between the two doors and, freezing it abruptly, pushed it upwards. Inside the wooden board clattered; Thursday shoved the doors open with his shoulder and Morse and Jakes dashed inside. 

The church had a wide nave, currently lit only by candlelight. In the back of the church something moved; Jakes dashed forwards with Morse at his heels. “Halt! Police!”

The shadowy figure slammed through a door; they chased after him, ducking a fireball lobbed at them as they twisted through the church’s back corridors. Another door further ahead banged shut – this one was made of metal, and led to the outside. They rushed through it and saw Glossop rounding a corner onto a back alley. 

They dashed after him, trailing him like staghounds, sprinting through the falling dusk. He was heading through the back roads that led to the Oxford University Press building, and the River Thames beyond. 

Glossop managed to stay far enough ahead of them to avoid attack, occasionally throwing a fireball over his shoulder and causing them to pause to deflect it. Once he set a heap of wooden boxes alight as he passed, leaving Jakes to douse it with water as he passed. Thursday was somewhere behind them, having lost his lead to the younger men. 

Morse had no air to shout; he focused all his attention on running, scrambling around tight corners and once slamming into a wall when he cut the line too fine. His leather-soled shoes scraped against the cobblestone street, slick and impractical for running. 

Ahead Glossop entered a wider alley lined with scaffolding; the buildings on the right were under repair. Glossop, tiring, turned and kicked a line of fire at them. Morse dodged left and Jakes right, ducking under the scaffolding. An instant later Glossop fired a volley of fireballs at Jakes – the DS dodged but they struck the metal poles holding up the heavy wooden boards; the whole of the scaffolding structure came down on his head. He leapt forwards but not fast enough; it caught his legs and cut him down, leaving him lying trapped on his face on the street. He scrabbled at the cobbles with his hands, trying to pull himself free, but the weight of the scaffolding was too heavy. 

Morse cut awkwardly to a stop, caught between pursuing Glossop and freeing Jakes. At the other end of the alleyway Glossop had stopped as well, sensing an advantage. He spun around tightly and let loose a blaze of fireballs at Jakes, trapped and unable to dodge.

Morse leapt forward, catching the fire in his hands and spinning around like a shot-putter, so close to Jakes that he saw the flames reflected in the sergeant’s wide eyes. He released the flame at the opposite end of its arc, fire speeding back towards Glossop who tore it in half with his hands, reducing it to cinders. 

“Didn’t think there were any pigs like me,” shouted Glossop, punching a fistful of fire at Morse. Morse waved it away, flames shunted harmlessly to the side. 

“I’m nothing like you.” He stepped forward, hands stiff at his side, feet itching to slide into a defensive stance. “Turn yourself in. You can’t get away.”

“Turn myself in to one lone copper? Fat chance.” He launched into a series of _kata_ , directing wave after wave of fire at Morse. Morse dug in his heels and cut his way through the flames, feeling their heat passing him harmlessly by. Behind him he could hear the wood clattering as Jakes fought to free himself. 

Morse spun around in a tight circle, hand lashing out, and called a whip of fire that struck out at Glossop. Glossop dodged, tumbling onto his shoulder and kicking a fiery spear at Morse who caught it and grounded it, leaving a charred patch of cobbles. 

Glossop’s new vantage point gave him a perfect line of fire to Jakes and he threw handfuls of flame at the water bender as he struggled to his feet. Morse stepped in front again, ripping through the fire and letting the sparks shower to either side. 

“Never mind about me, just catch the bastard,” shouted Jakes; Morse didn’t turn. 

Glossop was breathing hard but so was he, lungs aching for air. He had never fought another bender before; hand-to-hand was out of the question. He could only stay back and keep Glossop occupied until Thursday arrived or Jakes dug himself out. He launched another whip at Glossop, who caught it and spun it around. The fire lashed against Morse’s still-healing forearm; he cried out and took a step back. 

Glossop, sensing his weakness, lunged forward, kicking up sparks behind him. He sent a wave of flame rolling over the ground towards Morse’s shins; Morse jumped over it but missed his landing on the uneven cobbles, falling hard on his arse. He still managed to break the second wall of flame apart with his hands, but then Glossop was towering over him, arms upraised to rain down fire. Morse stared up at him in terror, the whole of his body stiff, his mouth half-open but soundless. 

“Goodbye,” said Glossop. 

Morse closed his eyes. 

And then, a moment later, opened them. He was still alive and in one piece, not burnt to cinders. Above him Glossop was hanging by his hands, which were trapped together by a sizeable chuck of stone. Morse turned his head and saw, coming down the alley behind him, Inspector Thursday. The DI made a harsh gesture with his hands and Glossop was dragged down to kneel on the ground, the rock encasing his hands now sitting on the cobbles. 

“You alright, Morse?” he asked, as Glossop fought fruitlessly to free himself. Thursday raised his arms and another set of stone bindings rose from the cobbles to enclose Glossop’s legs, keeping him from kicking fire. Morse slowly picked himself up, heart hammering in his chest. His palms scraped against the cobbles, tiny stones digging into the sensitive flesh; he brushed them off against his hips. 

“I think so.”

“Good. Go give Sergeant Jakes a hand. I’ll look after this,” he said, nodding at Glossop. 

Shivering with the aftereffects of adrenaline, Morse crossed the alley to where Jakes was still trapped; he had managed to turn himself over to sit up, and was shoving the wooden slats off his legs. Morse bent down and helped lever them off, enabling him to slide out. “You alright?” he asked.

Jakes was running his hands over his legs, grimacing. “It’ll come up black and blue tomorrow, but yeah. Yeah.” He looked up at Morse. “Thanks to you,” he said, with a trace of reluctance. Morse shrugged.

“It’s the job, isn’t it?”

“The job is what you make of it,” replied Jakes, standing slowly. “So, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

  
***

Morse sat in for some of the initial interviews with Glossop, until Thursday suggested that he was too close to the case. The man spewed vitriol, hatred for a society that had discredited and marginalized him, that had closed all its doors to him as soon as he made his abilities known. He had bounced from job to job, often earning dismissals as soon as his employers learned he was a fire bender. Until he had decided enough was enough, and someone had to pay.

Unfortunately the highest price had been paid by an innocent girl. Morse slunk out of the interviews with a sick feeling in his gut, and a knowledge of the evils desperation could drive a man to.

  
***

Bright called the CID together later that week; the men and women gathered together in the space between the desks, crowding around the DCS.

“As you all know, earlier this week DI Thursday, DS Jakes and DC Morse arrested Paul Glossop, the arsonist who has been plaguing Oxford this past month. Given that Glossop turned out to be a dangerous and well-trained fire bender, it was an arrest marked by bravery and determination. As we celebrate our colleagues, I would also like to take this opportunity to recognize Cowley Station’s first fire bender. DC Morse.”

The room went silent, then almost immediately filled with quiet whispers as each officer sought his neighbour’s opinion. Morse could feel their attention concentrated on him, and it seemed to him that he could even feel the doubt and the disgust and the anger. 

Bright let it go on for a moment, then cut back in: “DC Morse’s fire bending was instrumental in the apprehension of Paul Glossop, and I expect his abilities will become only more valuable as time goes on. I’m sure we all wish him nothing but the best as he settles into his expanded role.”

Morse stood stony and silent through the speech; when it had finished and Bright had disappeared, Thursday tilted his head to summon him into his office. 

“They’ll adjust to it,” he said, meaning the CID staff. “Neither Mr Bright nor myself will stand for bigotry. You might even find some unexpected allies.” 

Morse, looking out the window at the groups of men and women now doubtless gossiping about him, shrugged. 

“We’ll see, sir,” he answered. He had skated anonymously through years of prejudice and bigotry, and he knew it was real; stepping out into it didn’t feel a particularly wise move. 

But perhaps it was a necessary penance for his actions, for the teenage girl still in hospital. Perhaps stepping out into the limelight now would reduce discrimination, and with it furious benders like Glossop. 

Perhaps, he would finally be able to be himself. Only time would tell.

END


End file.
